


Describe the Way I Feel, You Are My Achilles' Heel

by jojothecr



Series: Prompt Table #1 - Kiss [8]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M, Prompt Fic, written in 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojothecr/pseuds/jojothecr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Masquerade :: <em>He was different last night. Warm and close, burning and needy. Like a poison Jared hoped there was no antidote for.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Describe the Way I Feel, You Are My Achilles' Heel

The bedroom is still dark when Jared opens his eyes, the scenery behind the windows a wet, depressing mixture of all shades of gray, and dawn just a rumor somewhere in Japan.

Jensen is awake, though. Too awake for Jared’s liking. Too cold and too distant. He’s already dressed, although the button on his black pants is undone and the white shirt he’s putting on is not his. There’s a goodbye on his face, in his gaze, in each of his movements. He’s rushing to be somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, just gone, not here.

 

He was different last night. Warm and close, burning and needy. Like a poison Jared hoped there was no antidote for.

Jared remembers watching him at the gala, always that kind of shy and reserved, but friendly and smiling. Remembers laughing when he saw him laugh, the wrinkles at his eyes deepening, not disappearing as fast and simply as they used to; the flash of his perfect, white teeth. Saw the way the suit jacket embraced and underlined the muscles on his upper arms, more defined than ever before, how the strands of his hair, longer and blonder than Jared was used to seeing, curled gently at the nape of his neck and around his ears.

One look was all that started it last night. And before. The first time. Just the meeting of two pairs of eyes, a lingering look, and the promise behind this gaze, memories and things to come. But it wasn’t enough. It never was.

Jared recalls stumbling through the bedroom door, barely avoiding the great ficus she was so proud of, the framed photo on the bureau; one day in February, snowy white and cold, that offered and promised so much, and might have had no meaning at all. Jensen’s arms, devoid of the crispy white shirt but bound by the cuffs, the taut muscles on his chest and miles of tanned, smooth skin. Jensen’s lips, plump and already reddened and bruised, and his mouth on Jared’s, hot and moist, hungry.

It wasn’t the first time. Jared’s not sure when exactly the first time had actually happened. Maybe in season three, or two... maybe the fourth one. It was just the first time after _Supernatural_ , three months after they had said bye at the Vancouver studio, promising them all to write, to call, to stay in touch. They had stayed in touch, talked on the phone almost every day, just without the actual, physical touch Jared was starving for.

He knew it wasn’t right, knew it was wrong, but Jensen’s always had that kind of effect on him, had always possessed this talent to drive Jared mad, completely out of his mind just with the curve of a smile, the sweep of his lashes, the cant of his hips.

Now Jared remembers Jensen’s body melting into his in a series of breathless moans and gasps, yielding beneath Jared’s touches, hard and insistent where they met. Jared’s fingers pushing beneath the soft fabric of Jensen’s shirt, curling around his hips, hard enough to leave marks, pressing his body into Jensen’s, and Jensen into the wall. “Wanna fuck you, Jen.” Jensen moaned at that, and shivered, a little earthquake running through his spine, beneath Jared’s fingertips. His answer was just a breath, a waft of heat and want that brushed Jared’s ear, “Jare”, and his fingernails digging into Jared’s skin, into his shoulder blades. “Want you so much,” Jared murmured.

Sliding into Jensen was like going home, falling home, tight heat and the familiar fragrance of Jensen’s skin, the tremble in his thighs that clung to Jared’s hips, the bow of his spine as he arched against Jared, into him. The thirst for release and the desperate need to prolong the tumble, hold him just that close and firmly for one minute more, ten.

 

The morning light always brings difference. Like, it’s lifting some veil of truth and reality that the night had covered with darkness. The reality of marrying the wrong person at what seemed to be the right moment, and finding the right one at the wrong time.

Three years, not much, just enough to make them both realize that it’s not working. That this isn’t what either of them wanted, and see the hole in between them getting deeper and darker, growing bigger with every day that they remain in this circle of no love that must be unavoidably heading towards hatred.

 

“What am I doing here?” Jensen says, pausing just long enough to glance up at Jared sitting at the edge of the bed. He looks genuinely confused, clueless, like he truly hasn’t realized where he is and what’s happened between them, again, until now. It’s not a question, not really, just a statement, surprised but somehow resigned at the same time. He’s clearly not expecting any answer, but Jared has one anyway.

“You’re putting on the wrong shirt,” he tells him, calm, but maybe just that tiny bit of venomous.

Jensen looks down at himself, finally noticing that the sleeves are a bit too long, and that the few drops of red wine on the front of the shirt don’t belong there. “This isn’t funny.”

“Never said it was.”

Jensen nods, but doesn’t say a single word more.

Jared sighs and stands up, erasing the distance between them with three short steps that don’t seem to bring them any closer. There’s still the strange, chilling estrangement staring back at him from Jensen’s eyes. “I wasn’t planning on this, alright?” Jared says as he puts his hands on the line of buttons on Jensen’s shirt, working them open again. “It just… happened,” he shrugs. “I was there and… you were there. And anyway, it was your fault.”

Jensen’s eyes sweep up from where they are watching Jared’s fingers fumble with the too tight holes and big buttons to meet his gaze, and he arches his eyebrow, offended. “ _My_ fault?”

“Yeah,” Jared confirms, finally slipping the last button free and moving his hands up Jensen’s chest to shove the shirt off his shoulders. “If you didn’t look so damn hot, so fucking gorgeous, Jensen.” He pauses, briefly, marveling at the way the taut muscles react to the contact, how Jensen’s skin pebbles with goose bumps that follow the invisible traces his fingers leave, how Jensen’s breathing speeds up. “If you weren’t fucking you, I would have no problems controlling myself and we wouldn’t be here now.” His palms slide down Jensen’s abs, stomach, his fingertips automatically skidding to the sharp swell of Jensen's hipbone, feeling for the tattoo he discovered last night. If nothing else, than the tangle of thin and thicker lines on the flat plane above the waistband of Jensen’s pants made all Jared’s blood rush south so fast it made his head spin. It was new, no older than a few months, but it fit there, him, like he was born with it. Dark black swirls, a tribal drawing of Pisces, the sign that he was born under. Jared traced the curves and shadows of it with his finger pads, tasted it with his lips, his tongue, making Jensen tremble and groan, and, finally, fall apart. “You were there, you know what you’re doing to me.”

Jensen blinks, as if startled, and it’s freaking adorable. “I… I promised myself that this wouldn’t happen again. Not until the papers are signed.”

“I am getting divorced,” Jared reminds. Because he is. She maybe doesn’t know the real reason, doesn’t know that it’s Jensen once more, but she’s not happy either. It’s just a matter of time.

“ _Getting_ ,” Jensen echoes blankly. “Yes. But only here,” he reaches out, touching Jared’s temple lightly. “Right? You haven’t told her yet.”

“I will.”

“When? When they catch us? When somebody tells her?”

“Soon, okay?!” Jared retorts, sharper than he intended.

Jensen draws in a heavy breath, shakes his head. His eyes get warmer, regretful and guilty. “I’m sorry, Jared, I don’t-- I know it’s not easy. I just… I’m tired of all these secret rendezvous. I’m too old for them, for all the lies and masquerade. She doesn’t deserve that either.” He puts his fingers on Jared’s cheek, caressing the rough, unshaven skin, and the cuff of his shirt falls over his knuckles, tickling Jared's chin. The simple gesture makes Jensen look impossibly younger. “I’m tired of being sorry for loving you.”

He kisses Jared like he doesn’t really want to, like he’s only following the motions of his body, its desires, trying to draw back even as he’s moving forward. But his kiss is hard, wet and possessive, and it’s not a goodbye, but a promise of more. Of one more right now.


End file.
